


Tides

by chocochurros



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-13
Updated: 2018-01-13
Packaged: 2019-03-04 02:12:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13354320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chocochurros/pseuds/chocochurros
Summary: The moon is rising. A flood swells; the planet bulges.Two opposites observe.





	Tides

The tides are shifting.

She sighs, snapping her worklet closed and tucking it into her pocket. Everyone else in the floor looks up in unison, then follows suit; it’s time to go. Within thirty seconds, the entire office is exiting, except for Trali - it’s his first time witnessing a Tide from up close, high up in a tower with a good vantage point; a coming-of-age of sorts. She ignores him, having faith that his mother will run back and retrieve him from where he’s pressed his nose against the wall-consuming glass. She’s right. Maili’s heels click, businesslike, on the marble floor and her son knows better than to complain.

The sky is beginning to darken.

They troop down the rectangular stairwell with the knowing, grim near-silence of veterans or government officials. This is everyday for them, a fact she is only reminded of by how Trali jumps up on his tiptoes at every window in a vain attempt to peer out over the city. Ah, children; she has no idea how they manage their ceaseless energy and wonder. One would think that no one taught him what’s going on, but Maili is a better mother than that. 

They reach the bunker still draped in stagnant silence, broken only when Naikin enters the passcode and the steel doors open with a familiarly greased sliding noise, echoing in the chamber beyond; the airlock follows suit with a steamy _hiss._ Trali’s face falls, Maili pats his back consolingly. It’s only for a little while. 

They spread out into the chamber, some moving to greet their families, some anxiously waiting by other entrances for their own. A quiet murmur of conversation begins to warm the air, but her face remains dour as she marches to her usual corner, sitting down with consummated grace as she tucks her grey-pleated skirt beneath folded legs. Two set lines make themselves known on either side of her mouth as she once again exposes her worklet to the open air, unfolding it before herself and resuming her latest report. Her coworkers know better than to approach her during a Tide, even with the best of intent. They have tried before, but she won’t eat or sleep until it has subsided. She is left alone.

The moon rises.

Trali is glued to the screen, mouth agape. The childrens’ bunkers are bare, screenless, making this his first mere inkling as to the event’s true scale. His eyes widen in fascination and awe at the flood enveloping the entire hemisphere, the swollen, brilliantly haloed moon illuminating the entire sky with heavenly light and casting a shimmering glow through the countless miles of ocean overhead; but he is sure to get bored after the first few hours. His mother soon falls asleep beside her husband, as do many others with their own families. They all have twelve hours until it is safe to return to their towers, without the risk of a window breaking or a fortification failing; most choose to sleep after a short meal. The chamber falls quiet aside from the occasional shift or grunt. The solitary woman continues to work.

It's hours before another sound disturbs the peaceful slumber of the chamber. An airlock door. She ignores it.

He basks in transfixed glory for one short, everlasting moment. So this is the moon that he's heard so much about.

It's longer still before Maili wakes again with a gasp, second sense tingling. A quick look around the room sends her heart rate skyrocketing; her heels click frantically around the chamber as it slowly wakes about her. The brooding woman glances up with only cursory interest to see the disbelieving mother collapse to the ground and offer a wail of anguish to an unfeeling lunar goddess.

The grey-skirted woman silently makes room for the grieving one to cry beside her as she works, face slightly more sour than before. Now another mother knows a fraction of her pain.


End file.
